


He smelled like the rain

by angelinthecity



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Elio's POV, Ficlet, Happy Ending, M/M, Phone Calls & Telephones, Reunions, The university visit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:48:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28008690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelinthecity/pseuds/angelinthecity
Summary: It had been an unusually warm fall for New England. On the first stops of the tour, the house managers had relished in it—”We ordered this weather just for you, Mr Perlman”—but by the fourth week, the grumblings about the survival of crops and lack of respite from the heat had started to overtake the conversations.The day I had gone to see Oliver at his university it was week five and I couldn’t have cared less about the weather.
Relationships: Oliver/Elio Perlman
Comments: 53
Kudos: 101





	He smelled like the rain

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, you may or may not have read this story before, as it was a part of my Tumblr ficlet series, where I wrote it for the word prompt _"Petrichor - the pleasant smell that accompanies the first rain after a long period of dry weather"_ and posted it on Feb 29, 2020.
> 
> However, I'm in the process of cleaning up my AO3 archive of some of the older, smaller stories I don't like anymore, but this one I still do, so I'm posting and archiving it separately here. (And if you're worried about any deleted fics, see my AO3 profile page. They aren't gone from the world entirely :))

It had been an unusually warm fall for New England. On the first stops of the tour, the house managers had relished in it—” _We ordered this weather just for you, Mr Perlman_ ”—but by the fourth week, the grumblings about the survival of crops and lack of respite from the heat had started to overtake the conversations.

The day I had gone to see Oliver at his university it was week five and I couldn’t have cared less about the weather.

I had been nervous; he hadn’t been expecting to see me. I had purposefully not told him I was coming because if you surprise someone, they won’t have time to hide their gut reaction. The first seconds will tell you if they really are glad to see you or if it’s all an act.

Oliver hadn’t recognized me at first, with a full beard and out of context, but once he had, his first seconds had been inhabited by a smile and a surrender.

I had come, mainly, to see if it really was over for us after fifteen years. It wasn’t, even if we didn’t acknowledge it in so many words and after I declined the invitation for a dinner at his house, we parted at my hotel after one blush (his), two confessions (both of ours), and three drinks. I waited that night to see if he’d come back or at least call to say he would have wanted to stay, but the phone stayed silent.

The call came two evenings later when I had already crossed the state line. Despite the heatwave, the Boston Symphony Hall had treated me well on a weekday and I don’t know how he’d gotten the number, but the phone in my room rang just as I was getting out of the shower. I left wet footprints on the carpet as I picked up the receiver, thinking it was the concierge calling about the car I had booked for the next morning.

The voice at the other end of the line wasn’t the concierge’s. “Suppose you didn’t come for dinner.”

“Oliver?”

“But suppose I had stayed at the hotel.”

I sat on the bed, drenching the sheets and shivering from the air conditioning. It was on high to fight the ever-present heat outside that tried to invade the building. “Suppose you had.”

The silence was so long that eventually I wasn’t sure if he was still even there.

“Oliver?”

A sigh at the other end. “I shouldn’t have said that. Let’s talk about something else. How was your concert?”

I told him, and we talked about how hot it was in Boston—” _In New Hampshire, too. Everyone wishes it would rain already_ ”—and how his classes had gone that day, and where the tour would take me next. Not a word about the hotel or the bar or how he’d blushed when I’d said I’d invited him for a drink, not a fuck.

He called me again three nights later when I had settled in my latest hotel room in Rhode Island.

“It’s still 92 degrees,” he started.

“89 in Providence. How did you know where I was staying?”

“This was my third try. Thankfully you’re not using fake names to check in.”

“Not that level of fame,” I reminded him.

“Yet.”

“Very funny. I play at symphony halls, not stadiums.”

“Suppose I had stayed.”

“This subject is back now? Are you going bring it up, only to drop it as quickly as last time?”

He ignored my sarcasm. “I shouldn’t have stayed, but suppose I had. What would you have done?”

I told him the truth. “Would never have let you leave.”

“I figured as much.”

We talked about his book, all the lobster meals I had eaten during the past six weeks, and how the people on tv were finally forecasting rain for the weekend. I only had one more stop left in Hartford, Connecticut, before I would return to Paris.

He asked where I’d be staying. “To save the poor Hartford receptionists the trouble.”

“At The Goodwin.” After a moment’s consideration, I begged him. “Come and see me play. Please.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

”You know why.”

On Saturday, I hoped anyway. Maybe he would sneak in to the back rows, come see me afterwards. When I left for the concert hall, it was unbearably hot but the air was thick with humidity; the rain was on its way and against all odds, I hoped that Oliver was, too.

By the time the show was over, there was no sign of Oliver but the rain had begun in earnest, blanketing the city with sharp, relentless drops. I ran inside to The Goodwin from the car and yet needed a change of clothes once I got to my room.

I had hung my jacket to dry and peeled off my shirt, ready to get in a warm shower, when the phone rang. He really has a knack for picking the times, flashed through my mind, but this time it was the concierge.

“I have a guest for you here, Mr Perlman. He says you’re expecting him.”

I didn’t ask who it was. “Yes, send him up, please.”

“I thought you couldn’t do this,” I said when Oliver stood at the door, as soaking wet as I had been.

“That’s right, I can’t,” he confirmed but his eyes didn’t leave mine.

“I can’t come in either,” he added as he stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him.

“And I can’t touch you,” he said as his hand found my dripping wet hair and the nape of my neck. His hand was cold from the rain but solid, steady.

“Or kiss you,” he reminded me as his lips did just that.

After the kiss, I burrowed into the damp front of his shirt and he smelled like the rain, welcome and long-awaited. A reminder of lusher, more abundant times.

“I gather that you can’t fuck me either,” I wagered, still breathless.

“Absolutely not,” he responded but he had barely gotten the words out before his mouth was back on mine.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading <3


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